Keeping in mind...

I am still rocking in the joy of new arrival, and trying to ground myself with these images:

myself there, in the hospital bed, with my two babies, my two infants, my living newborns.

Trying to remember breathing in their wet little heads, and kissing their swollen little mouths.

Knowing that that primal, basal love I had for them in those days where they suckled and groped and rooted and I went along with it all, desperate to dig to the bottom of what they needed and solve it all.

These are good, warm feelings to keep me afloat through these times, where the terrible-twoness I thought maybe was going to pass us by has reared up with a wicked vengeance. This has all corresponded perfectly with Aoife's abrupt and decided end to napping, end to diapers, and the emergence (bloody and bruised) of the two-year molars. My kids are the slowest, most excruciating teethers. Each one takes a few weeks, they come one at a time, so we're looking at a good three months probably, all told, of bloody toothbrushes and tylenol on -demand. And I give it, I feel so sorry for her. But this is all to say that our days together have been, how shall I say, difficult. There are those fleeting moments where I have to give myself a little pinch and say, remember, you love this child, somewhere deep down where you can't see right now. Because it's really hard sometimes.

Even my cool-tempered four year old has, in the past few days, had his moments of exhausted temper tantrums. Just flying into a wilted heap of tears, angry and depleted, and no doubt also affected by the hormonal mess of a sister he has before him, a new creature who is lying on the ground, screaming as loud as she can (as in screaming, not sobbing) and kicking her feet because she wanted raspberries in her rice krispies so I put them in but then she didn't want them so I obligingly took them out and now she wants them in.

We were on our way home from school when we realized we had forgotten the corn chopper he'd brought in for show-and-tell; it was left in his cubby as we ferried out children and artwork and the jackets from morning playtime. He melted into a puddle in his carseat, crying and carrying on, truly sad that his chopper was gone. Then, he asked me to turn around, and I explained that school was over, and so no. And then the piteous weeping morphed into a wailing, cranky tantrum of anger that I wouldn't go back and get it. So I explained, in my best calm voice, again, that the school was closed, the teachers had gone home, and the door was locked. The crying continued, wailing, yelling, kicking my seat crying. Seven minutes elapsed. I turned on the radio, pretty loud, gripped the wheel until my knuckles were white. Thought happy thoughts. Tried to remember that I love him so much, thought about his sweetness and his curiousity, and then it became too much. My arm jerked out, shut off the music, and a sound emerged from my throat: BE QUIET! It sounded like a snarl, like a wild, angry animal. It was me. I admit it.

The past week or so has felt a lot like getting by, in the times when I'm alone with the kids, and I don't like the idea that I'm just getting by, without really savoring or having fun. But this is the truth of it, that even if your first baby is dead and all you want to do is savor and enjoy and appreciate every single moment of parenting, awake or asleep, sometimes it's just a hard job that you do. And at those times, that primal, animal love that keeps you going makes you take a deep breath, remember how quickly kids change, and look at them in the eye and talk in your calmest voice. Okay, not always the calmest possible voice, but we try, right?

(look how cute they used to be. REMEMBER THIS)